The Ancient Roman’s had a God for everything. There was Apollo, the God of dance music – who went hand in hand with Bacchus, the God of high ABV Craft Beers. There was Vulcan, the God of geeks and sci-fi TV producers. They also had Juno, the online God of record buying and Mercury – the God of temperature fluctuations. Most prominent at this time of year was the Goddess, Samantha Janus. Much like her Eastenders’ character, Janus was a two-faced cow – the Goddess of beginnings, transitions and automatic sensor doors. It was Janus whom you prayed to if you wanted to carry the good fortune of the previous year, over in to the next. It was Janus who was a constant reminder that
Monthly Archive:: December 2011
I once claimed to a friend that I was a Prosecco Communist. Think champagne socialist but with better, bearded role models. It was a crass way of suggesting that whist I may want the opportunity to enjoy the finer things in life, I still value the ideal that everyone in society should be afforded the opportunity to provide for themselves – to in some way benefit a wider cause. I was reminded of this when I read a tweet from Josephine Borg (she goes by Jo on twitter, but I’ll be ever so slightly formal to this point). Jo is a Leeds based massage therapist specialising in the Hawaiian Lomi Lomi technique (yes – i had to look that up). Jo was looking for help
Belief. It’s a strange thing to explain to people. A sense of knowledge and understanding that comes solely from within – even if it is passed down through the ages. Only you can believe. Only you have the power to believe. Christmas is an interesting time when you have a young child. There are a number of messages – factual and make believe – that we, as adults, have the option to decide whether we play out in front of our children. There is the role of the saviour of mankind – and then there is the jolly, cheery gift bringer. One will forgive you of your sins, whilst the other will log your misdemeanours on a list and use them against you. One transcends
Self portrait – December 2011. This is a quick and dirty post. I’m not sure if it is a one off or a new theme – in which I plaster my ugly mug up on the blog, cataloguing a year through my face. Some might argue that the image won’t change – that the same lacklustre expression will be in evidence throughout the year. Maybe it won’t. Maybe you’ll see a stark contrast between how I look today, and how I’ll look in 12 months. Let’s see. Today’s image is a reminder that I shouldn’t even bother trying to make promises. Saturday morning I woke up, worse for wear, desperately trying to convince Amy that this Christmas will be different. That I won’t drink to
I’m sat at a table. It is a table big enough to sit six large chairs around. My hair is tidy; if a little long. My eyes are heavy – blue, but bloodshot. My features both puffy and sharp; stubble of two days is scratchy and loud to touch. I sit like a burst couch, slumped midway between chair back and table. I’m wearing worn clothes. Not worn as in draped over, more worn as in fraying. The cuffs on my hoodie are going. The collar on my shirt has gone – the ends of my jeans both grey and tattered. I am a man who clearly does not care for shopping. The room’s lights have been dimmed to the point I’m tempted to turn
On the first day of January. Well actually, charity is merely extended – given to a new cause at that time. Still fearful of that Humble Brag klaxon, but here goes with the latest cry for help. I have been donating regularly for most of my working life. Previous employers would often give the last working hour of the year to their nominated charity. Other places, such as where I work now, hold monthly charity drives – usually coffee and cake mornings. You donate your pounds by adding the pounds. It seems to work. But now I’m looking for inspiration. I’ve previously set up a yearly, personal donation. I’ve given to all the big names – Oxfam, Save the Children, UNICEF etc. It’s easy to